A young, puffy, fluffy, male blackbird landed on the fig tree. It must have been three days ago. It opened its beak to sing, but not one sound came forth.
The next thing the Dad arrived, wearing a black tuxedo and bowtie, and stood beside the young one. Quite obviously a conversation took place and the Dad flew off.
Suddenly young Pav began to sing. High pitched and not much control, but giving it laldy.
Then, from a far distance, Pavarotti’s amazing tones and slowly but surely young Pav’s voice sharpened, became more eloquent, somewhat reminiscent of Bocelli.